


The Time Capsule

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Childhood Memories, Gen, Minor Character Death, Unexpected Discoveries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7484148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal goes in search of his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     All families have murky secrets in their pasts, and those skeletons are usually kept securely locked away. Unless you are perhaps a movie icon or a politician, they never see the light of day. And, if these sins and sullied missteps remain hidden long enough, they can be ignored and conveniently forgotten. Well, _almost_. If someone is really motivated, they can ferret them out at their own peril.

     The single piece of paper, folded twice to fit within the business envelope, had a distinctive and proud letterhead. _U.S. Marshals Service_ was emblazoned across the top in a dignified, no-nonsense navy font layered upon a gray background. Underneath, in smaller yellow typeface, were three little words: _Justice. Integrity. Service_. What was the significance of the disparity in size, Neal mused absently? Were those three “little” words of lesser significance, added as an afterthought to lend legitimacy to the work that was this agency’s claim to fame? Did the people who worked there really believe in their own hype?

     Neal eyes moved to the one sentence contained in the letter. It reminded him of a childhood little ditty from elementary school. At the ultimate end of that ridiculous _“Farmer in the Dell”_ pair-off, it was always the “cheese” standing alone. Right now, Neal felt like the “cheese,” the last one left, the lone survivor.

     He slipped out of the FBI building early that afternoon. Peter was tied up in a budgetary meeting, so that was one problem solved. Neal actually walked himself to the Marshals building several blocks away. It was slightly out of his radius, but what were the Federal bloodhounds going to do—pursue him into their own lobby? He made it known to the person on the ground floor front desk that he wanted to speak to someone about a letter that he had received. He wanted to clarify its impact, he stated mysteriously, and no, he did not have an appointment.

     The sentry guarding the gate was in the midst of explaining protocols about obtaining access to the hallowed halls above him when he was interrupted by two serious and somber people who had magically materialized on the scene. Apparently, a tracking anklet on high alert brought the mountain to Mohamed. He followed the two agents, a male and a female, back to a bank of elevators. Of course, that all happened after he was first x-rayed, wanded, and groped within an inch of his life.

     He positioned himself between the pair as they ascended to the 23rd floor. Nothing was said; they simply led him to a small conference room and closed the door as they left. Neal idly wondered if there was a hidden camera cleverly embedded here somewhere. Everyone was _sooo_ careful nowadays. It could never come down to a “he said; she said,” because everything was documented on tape, camera—whatever. _Stupid_ , Neal thought, disparagingly. Hadn’t these clowns any sense of history? Didn’t they hear about the missing eighteen minutes on those Nixon tapes for which poor, loyal Rosemary Woods took the fall? Anything can be altered to insure that it puts its best foot forward.

     Nonetheless, Neal refused to strike a pose and smile for the peeping Federal paparazzi. He sat as still as a statue with his hands folded before him until, twenty minutes later, the two returned. Neal brought his mind back to the present and the business at hand when they seated themselves across from him with expectant looks on their faces. Neal carefully pulled the letter from his pocket and spread it before them.

     “I’m all for concise and succinct,” he began, “but this seems a bit too pithy.”

     The male partner, Agent Mantz, quickly scanned the one sentence and looked at Neal condescendingly. “It is a letter informing you of Mrs. Bennett’s death three weeks ago. What’s not to understand?”

     “This woman was my mother,” Neal argued. “She was more than just Mrs. Bennett to me. I grew up alongside her in WitSec when she was Mrs. Brooks and I was Danny Brooks. I am her only child, so I think that I deserve a bit more information instead of just a date of death. What did she die from? Had she been sick? Where was she when she passed away? Did she ever ask you to find me?”

     Agent Mantz was not finished being patronizing.

     “Look, Mr. Caffrey, we know who you are. Agent Jordan and I pulled your file before we came back, and it’s an interesting read, to say the least. However, the hard truth is that you gave up any right to know anything about your mother when you walked away from witness protection at eighteen. Even if she had asked us to find you, we wouldn’t have done so because that would have put her at risk. The Marshals pride themselves on never losing a ward under their protection.”

     Neal flashed back on those ludicrously boastful words of “Justice. Integrity. Service.”

     “Well, Agent,” Neal responded, “telling me about her now certainly can’t harm her. She’s gone forever, so where’s the danger?”

     “Look, Caffrey, it is what it is, and you can argue until you’re blue in the face but it won’t change anything. So, I suggest that you take yourself back into your radius, or there will be consequences.”

     The officious man rose abruptly, with his female associate following suit. Before the young woman closed the door, however, she shot Neal a gentle look of commiseration. She didn’t say anything; she just looked sad.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Surprise! Surprise!—well, not really. Peter is leaning against his car at the curb waiting patiently when Neal exits the Marshals Building. The con man remained mute as he resignedly climbed into the passenger seat.

     Of course, Peter was the first to speak. “I have one question for you, Neal. Did you come here under your own steam, or were you escorted here?”

     Neal was a bit surprised that Peter’s demand wasn’t more strident.

     “I had to attend to some business, so I brought myself,” the young man answered.

     Peter opened his mouth to respond, but Neal immediately cut him off.

     “Look, Peter, I know that it is your mission in life to always invade my personal space, but, please, just this once, can you cut me some slack?”

     Surprisingly, Peter did back off. Neal knew that the not knowing had to be killing him, so he gave his handler points for sensitivity. But, that diplomacy would only stretch just so far before Peter would probably launch his own probe by calling the Marshals’ office.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Two days later, another note arrived at Neal’s Riverside address. It was not business-sized or official, by any means. It was a small, square white envelope addressed in neat block letters. Those same generic letters appeared on a 3x5 index card inside that contained an address in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

     Neal finds that his mind is initially stymied, but then he gets an inkling. He remembers that compassionate smile, and hopes that the system will not ever succeed in suppressing her humanity. Thanks to the female agent, he now has his first clue in a breadcrumb trail. He knows of no one who lives in Wyoming, and little, if anything, about the area. Once, many years ago, he and Kate had made a brief pit stop on their way to the West Coast in Jackson's Hole, a skiing mecca. It was the one and only time that he had been within the huge state’s borders, and all that he can recall are the majestic Grand Teton Mountains and people wearing Stetsons, bolo ties, and boots.

     Using the reverse directory on the Internet, he is finally able to put a name to the address— _The Sheppard Institute._ More digging makes him aware that the institute is a psychiatric facility, and some of the mystery becomes clearer. Sadly, the establishment has no website, just its name, address, and phone number.

     Suspicions begin to niggle at Neal’s mind, and he cannot ignore them. He remembers a fractured childhood fraught with the volatile ups and downs of an emotionally compromised mother. When he was a youngster, he just assumed that this was the normal way that all parents acted. As he outgrew childhood, and entered pre-pubescence, out of self-preservation, he had learned to navigate his way through the hysterical crises and the dark depressive episodes that made up his days. By the time that he was a teenager, he was the parent and his mother had become the dependent one. He supposed that he should have felt more empathy at age eighteen. Instead, he had felt an overwhelming anger born out of betrayal.

     Now, Neal cannot help himself, and guilt, no doubt, is playing a big part. He is on a treasure hunt for answers. He has no one left to ask because Ellen, his last link, is gone, and his father—well, he’s gone now, too. Will it be a Pandora’s Box with all kinds of evil spewing forth, or will it give him a sense of closure? Neal had always considered that word “closure” to be presumptuous—some inane platitude that “wise” people thought was a panacea for misery. Knowing every last damn detail would not change anything. Facts were facts; they weren’t a salve that you could smear on open wounds to miraculously heal them.

     Maybe he should just let this whole thing alone. It wouldn’t do him any good to know how she was at the end. If she had been in a psych hospital, it surely wasn’t a pretty tale. But, parts of her genes were his. Neal knew about his father, and he could only hope that perhaps there was enough decent, healthy DNA from his Mom somewhere in the deep core of his being to offset his father’s familial taint.

     Neal certainly couldn’t turn to Peter for assistance, even though the man did love a challenging puzzle—not after the travesty that his handler had endured thanks to James Bennett. That flashflood had created a raging river that almost destroyed the fragile bridge connecting CI and agent. So, Mozzie got the job by default.

     “Mozzie, first we have to get a name,” Neal explained. “I’ve got the date of death, but obviously the Marshals moved her from Saint Louis, and most likely gave her a new name to go with a new place of residence. If she was a patient in the Sheppard Institute, they would have her registered under that new alias.”

     Mozzie is a technological guru and knows his way around the Internet and some of its darker regions as well. He agreed that they needed a place to start. First, he accessed the Social Security’s Death Notice site and printed out all the people who were reported to have become deceased in Wyoming on that day. He more than halved the amount by eliminating all the males. It seemed that the “stronger” of the species were consistently outlived by the “weaker sex.” Then he narrowed the parameters to include only those women who were in their fifties. The result was just six names, and the small number is not surprising. Even though Wyoming is a big state in area, it is sparsely populated with no booming metropolises.

     Neal studied each name intently, finally zeroing in on just one— _Margaret Bronfein_.

     “As Peter would say, I’m going with my gut, Moz. The Marshals changed our name from Bennett to Brooks. Maybe they stuck with that letter “B” during her last incarnation. See what you can find on Margaret Bronfein.”

     Apparently, if this was, indeed, Neal’s mother, the Marshals had buried Mrs. Bronfein’s past very deep because Mozzie couldn’t find anything. Everybody leaves a footprint somewhere, and if not the smallest trace could be unearthed, then it was a good bet that it was all a smoke and mirrors creation.

     “I hate to say it, Neal, but we can’t find out anything more stuck here in New York. Because I am such a good friend, I am willing to morph into Agent Groitzner once again, and travel to Outer Bumfuck, Wyoming. I’ll visit the hospital with that address, find out if Mrs. Bronfein was a patient, and if that pans out, I’ll get the lowdown with a fake warrant. And maybe I’ll even bring you back a steer or a moose or whatever the local fauna is out there in ‘them thar hills.’”

     Neal was touched. That old saying was true: _You could pick your friends, but you were stuck with family._ Mozzie, even with all his eccentricities and phobias, was a very good friend, but Neal couldn’t let him do this.

     “I appreciate the offer Moz, I really do, but I’ll figure it out somehow.”

     Mozzie looked at Neal speculatively. “You could always get the information in the old tried and true Caffrey way,” he said with a smirk.

     “What way would that be, Moz—lying through my teeth?”

     Mozzie just grinned. “I was going to say by being your charming and persuasive self, but lying works, too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     “You know that you can always talk to me and I’ll listen,” Peter declares out of the blue one evening as he drives Neal home from the office. Neal knows that he is sincere, just as he knows that Peter could not resist the temptation to follow-up with the Marshals about his CI’s impromptu visit last week.

     “There’s nothing to talk about, Peter,” Neal says breezily, “so just let it go.”

     Peter looks disappointed, and Neal is not sorry, not really. Peter had been staunchly embedded in his righteous world during a childhood shaped by upstanding, moral parents espousing the American way. He would never be capable of relating to Neal’s upbringing. It was, no doubt, a concept that was too foreign and out of his orbit. Even Mozzie, the orphan, couldn’t understand. By never knowing his parents, they couldn’t disappoint the little bald man. Instead, Mozzie could fashion them into anyone he wanted—star-crossed lovers separated by tragedy, clandestine spies in deep cover, deposed and banished royalty. Well, Neal didn’t have to indulge in fantasy because he knew exactly who and what his parents were!

     Nevertheless, Neal could not help himself. He had to know about the last fifteen years. Maybe, subconsciously, he had always thought that there would be time to find her again, time for them to talk, not as mother and son, but as two adults. Maybe she could make him understand. Maybe he just wanted her to say that she was sorry for lying to him. Maybe, Neal was the one who wanted to say that he was sorry for leaving her. Those two little words, “if only,” played over and over in his mind. Maybe he was going as crazy as she had apparently become at the end.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Mozzie was perched by his side, the inevitable wine glass in hand, when Neal decided to make that call that was figuratively a stab in the dark.

     “Don’t ask for the hospital’s administrator or director,” Moz advised. “Do an end run because you’ll most likely make some headway if you ask to speak to a nurse or a caretaker. The worst that can happen is they don’t have a clue who Margaret Bronfein is.”

     Thus, Neal dialed the unfamiliar area code, and when the call was answered, he asked to be connected to the floor where Mrs. Bronfein had resided while an inpatient. His hunch paid off as he was temporarily put on hold until another voice picked up and identified herself as Joyce Hines, ward manager, on the Jergens floor.

     “Ms. Hines,” Neal began respectfully, “I was wondering if it would be possible to speak to the nurse or the employee who was usually assigned to Mrs. Bronfein before she passed away.”

     “That would be Bonnie Wilhelm, one of our LPNs,” the ward manager quickly responded. “She routinely saw to Mrs. Bronfein’s needs. Let me page her so that you can speak with her.”

     Neal let out a breath. Could it really be this easy? Now it was time for more of the subterfuge, or the _lie_ , as Mozzie would say.

     Bonnie Wilhelm did not sound young and perky, but rather comfortingly mature and grandmotherly. Neal began his spiel by giving his real name, and that was the last true thing that came out of his mouth.

     “Ms. Wilhelm, thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy day to talk to me. Let me first explain why I am calling. Many years ago, when I was too young to remember, my parents divorced. I am told that it got quite nasty. My mother originally got custody of me, but, when I was three, my father took me away, and I never saw my mother again. In time, my memory of her faded, and I just stopped asking about her. When I was old enough to ask the right questions, my father told me that she was the one who abandoned me, and he would never give me any more information.

     Well, my father passed away six months ago, and while going through his personal effects recently, I discovered some things that led me to believe that everything that he said about my mother was a lie. I also found a document with the name Margaret Bronfein, and I believe that was my mother’s maiden name before she wed my father. There was also an address listed—your institution’s.

     So, I have finally gotten up the courage to call. I know that your patient, Margaret Bronfein, has passed away, so I suppose that it comes down to trying to figure out if she was my mother. Maybe you can help me. Did she ever mention Saint Louis, Mrs. Wilhelm? That is where I was born. It would mean so much to me if you could fill in the blanks.”

     “Oh, you poor soul,” the LPN gushed sympathetically. “I am very, very sorry that you are going through this. Family is so important, and that connection never stops being important, even as we get older and grayer. I do believe that our Margaret Bronfein might have been your mother because she came to us from Saint Louis almost fifteen years ago. There was no next of kin listed on her intake forms, and no one ever came to visit her. Bless her heart, she never received even one birthday or Christmas card. We just assumed that she had nobody. However, many times during her lucid periods, she would ramble on about her beautiful boy, ‘Neal.’ Did you possibly have a brother, because she also mentioned a ‘Danny’ from time to time?”

     Neal quickly parried that question. “Actually, Danny was my father,” he lied.

     Now that Neal had finally made it to the home stretch, did he really want to surge onward to the finish line? However, almost reflexively, he found himself saying the words.

     “Ms. Wilhelm, would you please tell me about her—just anything, something to make her real for me,” Neal found himself begging.

     The kind woman was a bit hesitant. “Are you sure that you want to know, Neal? The truth can sometimes be painful, I’m afraid.”

     Neal was well aware just how painful a harsh truth could be because he had lived it.

    “I’ve come this far,” Neal finally answered quietly. “It’s not only wanting to know, it’s needing to know, if that makes any sense.”

     The nurse sighed deeply. “It actually does, Neal. I understand family—raised one of my own and have been blessed with grandchildren. After forty-three years, I buried my husband, and I probably would not have made it through without my loved ones around me. I have been here at Sheppard for thirty-two of those years, and the patients are like a second family to me. Margaret Bronfein was one of them, so I have to try to protect her, even after death. So, although you believe that this woman was your mother, legally I can’t divulge pertinent medical data, not without the proper authorization.”

     “I understand,” Neal said softly, but there was no mistaking the disappointment in his tone.

     “However,” the sympathetic Mrs. Wilhelm responded, “I could describe her a bit. There’s no harm in that. And if anyone here takes exception to that kindness, well, I’m old and they’re about ready to put me out to pasture anyway.”

     “Thank you,” Neal breathed softly.

     “Well, Margaret was a strikingly beautiful and gentle woman, Neal,” Ms. Wilhelm began. “She had long, thick chestnut hair and beautiful blue eyes that could be mesmerizing. She didn’t speak very much, but when she did, she had such a sweet voice. Sometimes she’d rock and sing softly to herself. And, as I said, on occasion she spoke of ‘Neal, her beautiful boy.’ I don’t know if she recognized people, not even me after fifteen years. But, she always seemed to be less tense when I was around, so I have to believe that we had a connection of a sort.

     Unfortunately, she was very troubled and sad, and that sadness never went away. Giving a ‘state of mind’ a label is the way that things are done today. People insist on pinning down the unknown and categorizing it. If something has a name, then you have a certain power over it. So, they dream up labels like schizophrenia, schizoid disorder, bi-polar disorder, dissociative disorder. I think it all just boils down to a simple truth. Some fragile people find themselves in a deep state of unhappiness, and sometimes that unhappiness is just too much to bear. When they discover that they cannot escape those dark shadows no matter what they do, well, for lack of a better word, they break.

     When Margaret came to us from Saint Louis, it was after she had tried to escape her unhappiness. It would not be the last time that she sought relief. The last time was on the day that she left this earth. I have to believe that she has found peace now, and that she is finally happy and content.”

     Neal didn’t say anything for a long minute. His brain was finally processing what he was sure his subconscious already suspected. His mother had tried to kill herself, most likely right after he had run away from home. She had recently died when her last suicide attempt had been successful.

     The silence on his end went on for so long that the nurse inquired softy, “Are you still there, Neal?”

     Neal wet his suddenly dry lips and croaked, “I’m still here.”

     Mozzie suddenly looked up sharply and gave Neal a searching, concerned look. Neal had completely forgotten that the little man was still there beside him.

     “I’m sure this is all a shock to you, Neal, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t paint a rosier picture. For your own sake, just keep the image of a beautiful woman softly singing in your mind. Perhaps I can help you with that. I have a photo of her on my locker that was taken a couple of years ago. I keep pictures of all my little Sheppard family there. Would you like me to send it to you? And, come to think of it, there is a box of her possessions still being stored. Would you like those also? There is really nothing of monetary value, but you may find some sentimental comfort in her things.”

     Neal finally ended the momentous conversation by giving the nurse his New York address as well as his heartfelt gratitude. He sat back, exhaled, and stared into space.

     “Would you like me to stay or to go, mon frère?” Mozzie asked timidly. Sometimes the seemingly obtuse bespectacled guy displayed great sensitivity, and knew exactly when to tread lightly.

     “Yeah, Moz,” Neal said absently. “Maybe later.”


	2. Chapter 2

     The little, square carton made its way to Riverside Drive later in the week. Neal looked at it with trepidation for a whole day without opening it. It seemed very pathetic to him that over a half century of someone’s life could be reduced to something so small. Finally, on Friday night, he chided himself for being a coward, locked the door to his loft, and ripped off the packing tape as quickly as one would tear off a band-aid.

     As promised, on the top was a small snapshot of a middle-aged woman who seemed almost startled. Then Neal leaned in closer and read his own interpretation into her expression. His mother looked wide-eyed and lost, a fragile waif frozen in place. Her eyes were peering directly into the camera, and Neal wondered if he was seeing fear, or simple resignation, as she realized that this was definitely not the life that she would have chosen for herself. He could perceive nothing of himself in her features, except for the similar eye and hair coloring. But, this was definitely the mother from his childhood, just an older and infinitely more pitiful version.

     Setting the snapshot aside, Neal rummaged some more. There was a blue and gold intricately enameled hairbrush with a few dark strands still tangled in the bristles. Did the compassionate Mrs. Wilhelm run it through his mother’s long hair each day? There was also a small, cheap wire bracelet with a flat disc dangling from it. When Neal held it up to the light, he realized that it was a religious medallion, and the back proclaimed that the image represented Saint Christopher. Neal could not remember his mother espousing any formal religion when he was growing up, and she certainly never took him to church or Sunday school. When he Googled “St. Christopher,” he found that Catholics regarded him as the patron saint for travelers who had lost their way. Did the nurse also give this to his mother, perhaps hoping that divine intervention might help her find her way back to sanity?

     Finally, at the bottom of the carton was yet another, smaller box made of pale blue velvet. Neal did not remember ever seeing that when he was a kid. Perhaps it was just an old candy box that his mother had saved. However, he was unprepared for the treasure trove inside. There was a stack of pictures almost sepia-toned with age and tied with a delicate blue ribbon. Each one was labeled on the back in his mother’s flowing cursive.

     The first was a picture so similar to thousands of others in family albums that they are almost a cliché. Taken in a hospital nursery, a red-faced infant with the obligatory knitted hat on his head squints into the camera. The hat is blue, so obviously, even before he turned it over, Neal knew that he was looking at a newborn representation of himself. Sure enough, his mother had written his name on the back in careful script followed by the date of Neal George Bennett’s real birthday, not the one that the FBI had on file for Neal Caffrey.

     Other pictures marked various events and the dates in his young life—first steps taken in a house he didn’t remember, first bathing suit in a little kiddie pool in someone’s backyard, first ride on a pony God knows where. The pictures were only of his early childhood, and he was forever frozen in amber in a time before his third birthday.

     There was another stack of photographs on the bottom, tied with a black velvet ribbon this time. The first one is obviously a wedding portrait. His father looks so young, and his mother, barely out of her teens, is a real beauty. She is looking up at her new husband with a love so poignant that it takes Neal’s breath away.

     The next one is another young version of his father decked out in dress blues. The date on the back documents that it was taken when his Dad had graduated from the Police Academy. The next in the stack displays a slightly older version of his father beside another man. They are both in casual clothes, and on the flipside his mother had written, ‘ _Jimmy with Kevin, His Supervisor_.’ So, obviously, this was taken after James Bennett had made detective.

     _Kevin_ appears in one more picture. It seems that his father and his superior fraternized outside of the job because there are actually three people in this photo. James and Kevin are bookends with Neal’s mother wedged in between them. The two men are smiling, one arm around the woman beside them, and their free hand holding a beer bottle. The men are laughing and mugging for the camera. Neal’s mother is not. She is looking up at his father’s supervisor with that same profound look of love that was once bestowed on the man that she had married.

     It hits Neal like a sledgehammer when the light dawns. To reinforce his suspicions, he finds little folded pieces of paper, now brittle and yellowed with time, at the very bottom of that innocent-looking velvet box. They are love notes to his mother signed only with the letter “K.” They tell of devotion and desire, and Neal is embarrassed to read the words that were meant for his mother’s eyes only. She had kept them for decades, and he wonders how often she read them over and over in the past years?

     Neal tries to make sense of it. Words like lust and longing just do not jive with your perception of your parents. How can you imagine your mother in another man’s arms instead of your father’s? How can you accept that the woman who bore you was flawed, far from perfect as she plotted clandestine ways to be with her lover? Then another darker question enters his mind.

     Neal knows the story. He has heard it from Ellen and from his own father’s lips. The Flynn organization was responsible for killing James Bennett’s supervisor. Neal now doubts that is true. Now he suspects that the man’s murder was carefully plotted, and the deed ruthlessly carried out by a betrayed husband. He knows that his father is capable of it. Hadn’t he killed Senator Terrance Pratt just as dispassionately? Maybe that cold and calculated act committed so long ago had killed Neal’s mother as well. It may have taken many more years, but it had insidiously destroyed her just the same.

     Neal has seen enough and he wants it all gone. He arranges everything back in the box before he seals it again with heavy-duty duct tape. He carries it downstairs and finds June sitting in her elegant parlor, a space reminiscent of a more sophisticated era. A half-full brandy snifter is beside her on the table, and a book is in her hand. She sees Neal enter hesitantly, and the volume is laid gently aside because something is wrong. She knows all of his expressions because he has never tried to con her—so this one is worrisome. She does not pry, demanding to know. That is not their dynamic and never will be.

     Instead, she says gently, “How can I help, Darling?”

     He gingerly perches beside her on the sofa and hands her the small box.

     “June,” he starts off in a low voice. “Can you take this and hide it away somewhere. I don’t need to know where it is. Actually, I don’t want to know. Please don’t worry; it’s nothing stolen or illegal. It definitely won’t get you into any trouble if someone accidently stumbles across it. I promise.”

     June looks at him fondly. “Of course I will if that is your wish, Neal. You know you can always tell me if you change your mind,” she adds, speaking just as softly as he does.

     Neal finally looks her in the eye, a woman who has cared for him more like a mother than his own, and knows he owes her some kind of explanation. She would never demand one, but he feels that he owes her one just the same.

     “I guess you might call this box a time capsule—a time capsule of my family, all the good and the bad and the ugly that needs to be buried.”

     He realizes that it is a lame explanation, but he doesn’t know how else to describe it to her. Instead, he kisses her gently on the cheek and slides from the room.

~~~~~~~~~

     On Saturday evening, Peter lets himself into Neal’s loft after his knock goes unanswered. The room is empty, but his attention is drawn to the patio just beyond the glass doors. There is soft candlelight flickering there, and he can just barely make out Neal laying on a chaise lounge in the dusky night. Neal does not acknowledge Peter when he steps outside, just gives him a half-lidded, disinterested stare. There is a glass of wine on the table at his elbow and the heavy, sweet smell of pot in the air.

     Well, this is new, Peter thinks to himself. He has never known Neal to smoke or to indulge in drugs. Peter takes a seat facing his CI and says nothing, simply letting this play out of its own accord as he returns the stare. Neal is the first to blink in their standoff.

     “It’s medicinal. Wanna see the prescription?”

     Peter almost snorts. If Neal does indeed have a prescription, it’s definitely one that he has forged himself. But, Peter doesn’t go there. He knows that the safe bet is pick his battles and make them count.

     “So, what’s ailing you that you need to self-medicate, Neal?” Peter asks instead.

     “Not a thing, Peter. It’s Saturday night and I’m just unwinding,” the young man reassured him as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

     The two men sit in silence for a while with the lie, bold and taunting, floating between them. This time, it is Peter who breaks the silence.

     “It’s really hard to lose a parent, Neal.”

     Neal’s only response is to laugh bitterly before declaring, “My family was so fucked up, Peter. You just have no idea.”

     Peter is momentarily thrown. Neal never swears, so whatever this thing is, his mother’s death must have been the catalyst to start the avalanche. Sitting in Peter’s Brooklyn home, Ellen had once admitted that she had told Neal a truth that he wasn’t ready to face. Was that truth what started a young Neal on a self-destructive path in life? Was the recent death of his mother starting the cycle all over again?

     Peter advanced slowly and carefully. “No one ever has a “Father Knows Best” childhood, Neal. If they claimed that they did, then either they’re lying or really forgetful.”

     Neal ignores Peter’s attempt to ferret out his secrets. They are his secrets, damn it, and they are going to remain hidden away. He’s going to lay it on the line for his nosy partner just once so that maybe he’ll back off.

     “My father was evil, Peter, really evil. He started killing my mother years ago, and I finished the job for him. End of story. So, there you have it all tied up in a neat little bow—a really fucked up, fractured American Dream fable. Maybe Hallmark can make a movie.”

     Peter waits a beat before he says quietly, “You are not your father, Neal.”

     Neal doesn’t answer. Peter gets no argument, no denial, and no confirmation. The long minutes tick by with only the ambient sound of New York traffic as background music. Peter’s eyes have grown accustomed to the almost complete darkness. Now he can notice the slackness in Neal’s body, the easing of the tension lines in his face. He looks less rigid, less brittle, and less resolutely hostile and angry. Sleep has claimed him, and Peter can only hope that the heat within him has finally died out. But, Peter is a pragmatist, and suspects there are still smoldering embers lurking down deep, ready to flare up once again. There is nothing more that he can do tonight. Maybe there is just nothing that can be done to fix whatever “this” is. With a sigh, Peter rises and quietly makes his exit.

~~~~~~~~~~

     On Sunday, Peter reads the weekend edition of the New York Times and labors over the crossword puzzle. Then he attends to some outstanding household repairs, and even peruses a few miscellaneous FBI files. Every so often, he checks Neal’s anklet data and sees that the con man has stayed in all day as well. Peter has no idea what Neal has been up to during the down time, and decides that maybe he really doesn’t want to know. He’ll deal with “whatever” when he has to pick up the pieces.

     On Monday morning, Neal sails into the White Collar office precisely on the dot of 9 AM. He flicks the vintage fedora onto his desk with practiced ease while holding a take away cup of coffee in the other. When he bounds up the steps to Peter’s office, he extends that cup of coffee to Peter as if he is a penitent who has come bearing gifts, or maybe a peace offering. His eyes are clear and his smile is dangerously bright. The tailored suit is impeccable—the trousers display a sharp crease, and the pocket square is aligned just so. This is the visage that Neal Caffrey presents to the world, and it is the biggest con that he has ever perpetrated.

     “Good Morning,” is all that Peter gets from Neal at that moment. In the blink of an eye, he is back at his desk kibitzing with other members of the team in the bullpen. It’s as if Saturday had never happened. Peter knows that something had happened. He was wise enough to know that Neal was never satisfied with taking things at face value. He would have probed and dug until his questions were answered. Peter senses that those answers were catastrophic to the young man, almost enough to break him.

     Then Peter re-evaluates that notion. Neal is perhaps the strongest and most resilient man he knows. In the short time that Peter has been in Neal’s world, he has seen him endure prison, the loss of his cherished girlfriend, the loss of a woman who helped raise him, and the defection of a deceitful father. Peter knows nothing of what challenges came before that. What he does know is that the young man has endured and struggled on. He has been beaten down, and it has only made him stronger and more determined. Peter can never envision him breaking apart into pieces.

     Neal will always have his secrets, and maybe he is entitled to have them. He has earned that right. So, in that spirit, handler and CI never discuss that mysterious week of uncharacteristic behavior. They move forward. After all, now it is time to take down the Pink Panthers.


End file.
